Together
by britishtoatea
Summary: WARNINGS: Character Death, suicide, depression, cutting. Arthur loses the one person who means more to him than anything. M to be safe. 2p Fruk


Arthur remembered the crash in vivid detail, even a year later. He dreamt of the sudden impact at night, heard the screeching tires when the house was silent, saw the spatter of blood when he closed his eyes. There hadn't been time to scream, or to brace himself for impact. He'd only had time to reach out a hand and grip his husband's sleeve before the SUV slammed head on into the front of their car.

A drunk driver, that's what the police had said when he'd woken up in the hospital four days later. Arthur had thought it was ironic, considering Francis was the biggest alcoholic he'd ever known. He was sober that night. It had been their ten year anniversary. They'd gone to see Moulin Rouge.

Arthur remembered when they'd told him, after what seemed like the hundredth time he'd asked where his husband was in the hospital. It was a young nurse who'd finally told him. Arthur could still hear those words spoken, as the nurse had taken his hand. "I'm sorry. Your husband didn't make it."

Killed on impact, he'd learned later, while all he had suffered was a broken arm and a bloodied face. He'd been wearing his seat belt, Francis hadn't. It was the first time Arthur had forgotten to remind him to buckle up.

Time had stopped for Arthur, there was no night, and no day, no hours or minutes. All he felt was an emptiness that he couldn't fill. The funeral was a blur to him. He remembered seeing his husband, in an eternal sleep within his casket. He remembered the hoards of sympathetic friends hugging him. He remembered the endless tirade of "I'm sorry"s. Arthur was so tired of that word.

"Sorry" became a word he dreaded. Each and every time he heard it, it only brought back the reality that Francis was gone. He grew to hate the sympathetic looks he received from people he knew were only trying to help.

The first three months after the accident, he'd slept on the sofa. He couldn't bring himself to climb the stairs to their room, to see the mess Francis had left on the floor the morning it had happened. He couldn't stand the idea of dirtying the sheets after their morning of love making, their last time together. He couldn't bring himself to wash away the evidence of those last moments when his life was still perfect.

Arthur had often contemplated moving back to England, leaving behind Francis' home, and all the memories of their home along with it. He couldn't bring himself to do that either. Francis was everywhere in their home, and Arthur left every trace of his lost husband untouched. His books still sat on the shelf, his favorite pen still rested atop a poem he had left unfinished in his messy scrawl on his desk. His laundry was still on the floor, in the bedroom and the bathroom, and his dirty socks still shoved in the couch cushions.

Matthew had offered to help Arthur clean up, long ago; during a visit he'd made after Arthur had locked himself up inside their home and refused to answer the phone for three days. "I'm just not ready." He wasn't nearly ready to clean up the traces of his husband's life.

Nothing held any joy for Arthur anymore. He'd tried to fill his time baking, only to have his sweets pile up on the counters of the kitchen with no one to eat them. He'd forgotten just how much of his recipes had been catered to Francis' tastes. After he'd baked his fifth carrot cake he'd stopped baking.

Reading was even worse. Every time he'd pick up a book, he'd be flooded with memories of he and Francis snuggled up together, his head on Francis' chest, with the soothing sound of his husband's voice reading whatever book aloud. It never mattered to Arthur what Francis decided to read to him, he'd listen to anything if Francis was reading. Not anymore. It stung him to think he'd never hear his lover's voice again.

Even a year after the accident, his pain and longing for Francis hadn't let up. People no longer looked at him with sympathy, instead with some form of annoyance that he couldn't get over it and move on. He remembered Alfred trying to ask him on a date.

"Come on, Artie. It's been a year. You can't hold on to the dead forever. Let's go out and get some chow." The very idea of even thinking about seeing anyone else made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want to be touched or loved by anyone but Francis. So he politely declined, locked himself even further away in his memories.

He began to sleep in their bed again soon after that, and was disappointed that Francis' pillow no longer held his smell. The room was covered in a thin layer of dust, and Arthur was forced to clean it for the first time, just so he could live in it once more. He cried as he picked up dirty clothes on the floor, sobbed as he stripped the bed linens, and broke down after he turned on the washing machine. He was finally washing away his husband.

Arthur fell deeper, some days only getting out of bed to use the restroom. He stopped eating. Life wasn't getting any better, like everyone kept telling him it would. Nothing was easier. He never for a second stopped missing Francis. He felt like he was a shell of his former self, alive only in body. It was Francis' birthday, one and a half years after that horrid day that had ruined his life that he began to contemplate suicide.

The thought of dying occupied his mind almost as much as his husband did, and he researched ways to end his life fervently. Did he really want to die? Was there help? Was life even worth living any more without Francis? He'd tried to move on, with no luck in healing.

It would have been their twelfth anniversary when he finally made the decision to end his life, and he felt an odd sense of relief once the decision was made. He smiled for the first time in two years. To those around him he seemed to be his old, chipper self once more. He baked cupcakes for Mattie, vegan cookies for Alfred, had them over for dinner. Everything seemed to be normal.

It wasn't until after they'd left that he sat down to write his goodbyes to his friends and family. His suicide note was brief, down to the point. He did not apologize for what he was about to do. He did not cry for the end of his life. All he could think about was Francis, and how he could almost sense his presence in the room with him, almost as if he were also longing for Arthur to hurry up and pick up the blade so they could once again be united in each other's arms.

Arthur wasn't afraid when he picked up the knife, an odd sense of calm surrounded him as he made his way up the stairs, wrapped himself up in Francis' favorite purple shirt. His note lie on the nightstand beside him. He took a deep breath, spoke softly.

"I miss you… I tried. I can't do this without you. I hope… you aren't upset with me."

The first cut down his arm stung and he watched in fascination as the blood began to pour from his wound. Cut up and down, not across, is what he'd read on the internet. He repeated the process on his other arm, whimpered as the knife ripped through his skin. The smell of his blood reminded him of that night.

Things were getting blurry and fast, and Arthur closed his eyes, lay his head upon the pillow on Francis' side of the bed. The sheets were wet, sticky with his blood, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes, felt the faint sensation of his hair being stroked by large hands. Francis was here. Arthur found peace in that as he took his final breaths, closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, everything felt different. The pain in his wrists was gone, and there was that once familiar hand in his hair.

"Francis?" His voice was barely a whisper, almost as if he were afraid that it wasn't true, that he'd failed and it was someone else trying to comfort him.

"I'm here, Arthur." And then he felt his bed shift behind him, felt strong arms around his waist, and a stubbled chin against the back of his neck. He was home. This was where he belonged, in the arms of his husband, his soulmate. "You have to get up, Arthur. We need to go home."

Arthur lay there for a few more minutes, before slowly standing, Francis coming up with him. They joined hands, and walked into the light. Together.


End file.
